


Little Beast

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010), Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: AU, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writen for the LJ inception_kink prompt: "Arthur is Maurice Fischer's illegitimate child. Robert only finds out about him upon his father's death, and when he finally tracks Arthur down, he finds that his half brother has lived a horrible life of deprivation and misery. If you want to make this a kind of fusion thing with Mysterious Skin, awesome!!! Hurt/Comfort."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

I'm writing another damn postcard--this one to Brian, not Eric--when there's a knock on Wendy's door.

"Fuck's sake." 'Cause I think it's her last boyfriend, Slater, trying again to get her back. He ain't hardly my height, and squirrely. So I'd told him if he didn't leave her alone, I'd fuck his shit up so bad, wouldn't no other girl want him.

I didn't wanna make good on that promise, but for Wendy, I would. I'd do damn near anything for that girl.

So I go to the door and look through the peephole. My jaw drops and my dick gets hard almost instantly. Cuz even though the peephole makes everything look all warped and creepy, I can see the guy on the other side of the door is too hot for any words that ain't "I'd fuck him for free."

That's my first thought. My second is "he's at the wrong damn apartment."

It's a crying shame, but the sooner I can get him on his way, the sooner I can get back to telling Brian how much I  _love_  my new job at the Chick Fil-A just opened on 23rd and Lex.

So I open the door and lean on the frame, smiling. I look the guy up and down and he's even prettier than advertized, with big blue eyes in a square, delicate-featured face.

"Hel- _lo_ , Sug. Whatchoo want?" Now, either he'll run for the hills, if he's straight or at the wrong apartment, or gimme a price, if he's neither of those things. The patented Neil McCormick sex-voice  _never_  fails.

"Ah," the guy says, clearing his throat, and looking me up and down again. He's a real genius, I can tell. A fucking poet. Not that I'm interested in his brains or lack thereof. "Neil Arthur McCormick?"

I lose my cool for a second there. No one, not even my mama uses my middle name.

Guess he's at the right apartment, after all. Though he sure as shit don't look it. I ain't up on fashion, but I'm guessing his suit costs more than this whole crappy building.

"Name your price, and I could be anyone you want me to be," I tell him, smirking, cuz even though I swore off hustling after last Christmas . . . fuck, between his looks and his money, I'd go back just this once in a heartbeat.

The guy clears his throat again and tries to smile. "My name is Robert Fischer, and, ah," he says in a surprisingly deep voice and I get a little bit harder. He may look like Jane, but he sounds like Tarzan. Oh, fuck. I'm about to break my promise for free if this guy likes dick. "We need to talk. It's kind of important. May I come in?"

I bite my lip and pout a little. "In, on--baby, you can come anywhere you like," I say, and he actually blushes, looking down at his expensive shoes.

"Ah," he says again, and laughs all nervous. Maybe he thinks I'm gonna bite him. Oh, baby, only if you want me to. Only if you beg.

"Ah, I really need to speak with you, Neil. Please." When those eyes meet mine, I can see he ain't here for anything I might be selling. Another shame, but what the hell. I'd still do him for free, and Wendy ain't gonna be home for hours.

"Fine. C'mon in." I stand aside and he walks past me, inside. He smells like really good cologne. Better than I ever smelt before.

"Fuck," I mutter, and close the door, leaning against it. I watch him look around the apartment: the bunk bed, the coffee table, the couch. The tiny kitchenette and bathroom. All in easy viewing distance, this place is so damn small.

Wendy deserves better, and one day, if I can get my shit together, she'll have it. Maybe her and me, and Brian and Eric'll all get a house in Brooklyn someday. . . .

Fischer turns to me, smiling. "Nice place."

I snort and move past him--God, that  _cologne_ \--into the kitchenette. "No, it's not. You want something to drink?"

"Ah, no." He laughs that nervous laugh again, and watches me crack open a beer. It's warm and kinda flat from sitting on the counter all day, but it's better than no beer at all.

I take a sip and look Fischer over once more. He's slim, a little taller than me--fucking gorgeous and out of place. Despite him knowing my name, even my middle one, he's so obviously out of place. He don't belong here.

"So . . . what can I do ya for, Bobby?"

 "It's Robert--or Rob." He clasps his hands behind his back and rocks back on his heels. "And it's what I can do for you . . . have you ever heard the name Maurice Fischer?"  
  
No. "Should I have?"  
  
Robert smiles, and he barely looks older than me, when he does. "Probably not. He was my father."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"He passed on, recently."  
  
"That sucks. Sorry," I say. I don't know anyone who's had a loved one die, so I don't know what to say other than that. Hell, I never knew my dad, so I can't imagine what missing one must feel like.  
  
Fischer waves a hand, as if he don't care much, one way or the other. "He and I weren't close at all. But thank you for your condolences." He frowns and rocks again. "The reason I'm here is, well, I don't know how to say this, don't want to beat around the bush and wear out my welcome."  
  
I run my tongue around the lip of my bottle before taking a sip. "Sug, you could never do that, pretty as you are."  
  
"Ah. Ah-hah-hah," Fischer says, all uncomfortable again. And he's red about the face like he ain't used to guys coming on to him. I can't believe he isn't, not with  _that_  face.  
  
I put down the beer and saunter over to him, my best hustler prowl, and his eyes widen. When I'm all up in his personal space, he takes a deep breath. "Neil--"  
  
"Hmm?" I lean in close enough to smell his cologne again, as well as soap, shampoo, and the clean-wool smell of his suit. His blood's so blue, I can almost  _smell it_ , too.  
  
"I'm--" Fischer huffs out a small breath I can feel on my face. Before he can move back or away, or whatever he's gearing up to do, I put my hands on his hips, squeezing them, then sliding around to his ass so I can pull him against me.  
  
"You feel  _real_  nice," I tell him, letting him feel how fucking hard he's making me.  
  
I can also feel how hard I  _ain't_  making  _him_.  
  
Those pretty eyes widen even more, and Fischer all but jumps out of my arms, putting the couch between him and me. He's breathing all fast like I'm chasing him. But Neil McCormick don't chase  _nobody_. Never have, never will.  
  
And anyway, I'm pretty pissed-off, now. Losing my hard-on  _fast_. "Well, fuck, if you don't wanna fuck,  _Mr. Fischer_ , what the fuck  _do_  you want?"  
  
"My brother!" He blurts out, and I feel my eyebrows shoot up. Ain't nothing I haven't heard before, but it ain't anything I'd expect from a money-bags like him.  
  
"Alright. I can be your brother, your mother, your second cousin twice removed, if you want." I turn on my professional smile. "My price is one-twenty an hour, non-negotiable."

"What?" Fischer looks confused, then horrified. "Ah, no.  _God,_  no! That's not--I don't want--"  
  
"Then what.  _Do_. You. Want?" I ask again, slow and careful, like I'm talking to a real dumbass little kid. Hell, I'd sign it to him if I knew sign language.  
  
Fischer shakes his head, still looking horrified. "Are you . . . are you a prostitute?"  
  
"For the right price, I'm anything." I roll my eyes. Sexy as hell and thick as bricks. He's more and more my type.  
  
"Ah, fuck," Fischer hangs his head, shaking it. "You're only twenty."  
  
Good guesser. "So? I've been working for five years, so believe me, Sug, I'm worth every penny I charge."  
  
"Five . . . since you were  _fifteen_?" Fischer sounds scandalized. I roll my eyes again and flop on the couch. He steps back real quick like I'm about to jump him, so I sneer.  
  
"Look, if you wanna stand around asking me stupid questions, you can. But it's still one-twenty an hour." I swing my legs up onto the couch and pose for him, running a hand up under my wife-beater and looking him in the eye. "But I can think of something better you could be doin'."  
  
He still looks scandalized.  
  
Then he swallows, and pulls out his fancy leather wallet. Counts out some bills and hands them to me. Actually hands them to me, doesn't just toss them at me like my Johns usually do. Huh. "Tell me some more about yourself," he says.  
  
"There's a grand here." I'm surprised and I recount it just to make sure. Yep. Ten one hundred dollar bills. "Sug, that'll buy you my  _whole life story_."  
  
Fischer nods, and puts his hands on the back of the couch. "I'm all ears. Start from the beginning, and end with tonight," he says firmly, his eyes locked on mine like he's trying to see all my secrets.  
  
Hell, for a grand, he can have 'em. They ain't been doing me a world of good.  
  
I swing my feet to the floor and stand up to fetch my beer. He watches me closely, like I'm the most interesting, puzzling thing he ever saw. I take a long swallow of my beer and sigh. "You sure you wanna pay a thou just for a whore's life-story?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"You know I could just make up any ol' pack of lies just to get you out the door."  
  
Fischer smiles. He has a nice smile--dimples, too. Not as deep as mine, but he's got 'em. "You could lie," he acknowledges. "You've got all the power, here. You're holding all the cards. You could lie to me all night long . . . but I'm hoping you won't."  
  
I sigh again, and finish my beer in one more long swallow, wondering if I'm actually gonna tell him the half of it.  
  
But then I figure  _what the fuck?_  He's just some John I'll never see again, and it don't really matter, anyway. I offered him my life story, and that's what I'll give him. It don't matter to me.  
  
Fischer's still leaning on the back of the couch, still looking completely out of place. It's cute on him, uncertainty. My dick starts twitching again, and I put on my sexiest smirk. Fischer'll probably get bored in ten minutes and jump me like a John  _should_. It'll be the easiest grand I ever made.  
  
"Well, have a seat," I tell him.

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for summary. Oh, and the title is from the Richard Siken poem of the same name.

  
Afterwards, Fischer and I sit there, staring at each other for awhile.  
  
  
Dawn’s shining in the window—probably gonna be another nice spring day—and by its light, he’s still as pretty as a picture. A slightly red-eyed, obviously tired picture.  
  
  
That thousand dollars is burning a hole in my back pocket, knowing good and well it’s already spent on earrings for mom, a roundtrip plane ticket home for Wendy, a leather jacket for Eric, and a bunch of cash for Brian to buy art supplies.  
  
  
Yeah.  
  
  
And  _fuck_ , but Fischer’s still watching me, all thoughtful and quiet. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.  
  
  
“It’s the truth,” I say, not that I care if he believes me, but I  _do_  have a rep for giving a John his money’s worth.  
  
  
“I know.” Fischer nods heavily, like a man with the entire world on his shoulders. I, on the other hand, feel kinda light, like I did after I told Brian the exact same story. Huh.  
  
  
“Even the part about the alien stuff,” I add, and Fischer smiles like maybe he wants to cry or scream, but is too controlled to do either. “I mean, there weren’t any actual aliens, but my friend really believed that for a long time.”  
  
  
And for a while, I’d thought it might be better if I’d let him go on believing that crazy shit. But he’d deserved the truth. Hell, it was the  _least_  he deserved.  
  
  
“I wish I’d taken you up on that drink.” Fischer stands up and paces the ten steps to the kitchenette, then the twelve steps to the door.  
  
  
“The offer’s still open,” I tell him, meaning more than the beer. Not that he seems to notice. “Hell, it’s gotta be five o’clock somewhere.”  
  
  
“Australia,” he says, smiling like he really knows. And maybe he does. Rich people love to travel. Something that he proves by saying: “I’ve got a house in Sydney.”  
  
  
“Good for you.”  
  
  
Fischer grins for just a moment, and I get another flash of those dimples, and perfect white teeth that I want real badly to feel on my body, marking me up like a sheet of paper.  
  
  
Cue my dick, ready to jump outta my pants. I wanna bend him over the back of the couch and fuck him while he’s still wearing that fancy suit. I wonder if I’d be his first. Probably not—not looking like  _that_ , but a man can dream, can’t he?  
  
  
“You still want that beer?” And damned if my voice don’t crack like I’m twelve again. I’m actually _nervous_ , and for no damn reason. Robert Fischer is just a  _guy_. A guy I wanna fuck, but so what? I’ve been fucking since I was eight. It ain’t nothing new, to me. “I also got Jim Beam and Bacardi 151—they’re both pretty nasty, but they kick like a fuckin’ mule.”  
  
  
“Actually . . . what I want is to see you again,” Fischer says, suddenly serious and sincere; I’ll bet he was a Boy Scout when he was little.  
  
  
“That can be arranged.” I smile my most innocent smile, drifting over to him real slow, like I ain’t got nothing wicked planned. “When’s good for you?”  
  
  
Fischer don’t pull out an appointment book, like I half-suspect he will, but his eyes go half mast for a moment, like he’s mentally shifting around appointments and meetings to make time for me. I wonder what he does for a living. Probably a stockbroker, or something like that.  
  
  
“Is tonight at eight good for you?”  
  
  
It’s not, but I can probably get someone to cover me at the Chick Fil-A. I know Katerina’d gladly take my shift. It’d mean working a double, covering her shift and mine, but she’s trying to make hours like crazy. She’s got a little boy to take care of.  
  
  
“I can do eight.” And I must be going soft because his smile makes me think that whatever happens at eight tonight is gonna be so worth missing my shift. Even if all he wants me to do is talk again.  
  
  
“Great,” he says, and his voice sends shivers all up and down me. My dick is hard enough that if he looked down, he’d have no problem guessing what was on my mind. “That’s actually perfect. I—”  
  
  
“It certainly is.” I dart in to kiss him on the mouth. I don’t even slip him the tongue but he pulls away, all wide-eyed and startled. Then he just looks guilty.  
  
  
“Look, I, ah, I didn’t mean I wanted to see you in a . . . professional capacity, Neil.”  
  
  
I slide a little bit closer, noting he don’t step back, even if he leans away just a bit. My smile ain’t so innocent, now, I bet. “I’m all for you seein’ me in a strictly personal capacity, too, Rob.  _Real_ personal.”  
  
  
“Neil—“ he squeaks when I kiss him again, hard and dirty. He tries to push me away, but I latch on good. Hell, and he’s fighting so half-hearted, I don’t even feel bad about it. He tastes a little bit like mint, a little bit like stomach acid. His lips are soft and  _perfect_ , even though his response is just as half-hearted as his fighting. Like he wants it but don’t think he should.  
  
  
“We can’t do this,” he says when I let him up for air.  
  
  
“We  _can_. Just lemme—“ I get my hand between us and feel for his cock. Oh, yeah. His mouth may be saying no, but his body’s starting a whole 'nother conversation. “See? I can make you feel real good, Robert. I’m so hard for you, can’t you feel it?” I grind my hard-on against his, real slow and nasty. His eyes roll back and flutter shut a little, and he bites that pretty lower lip of his. “That’s right, Sug. I’m hung like a stallion  _and_  I’m virgin-tight. So we can do  _whatever_. Whatever you want.”  
  
  
“Mmf,” Fischer says, because I’m kissing him again, pressing him into the wall and stroking him up real good.  
  
  
“Gah!” He suddenly pries me off his lips and shoves me back hard, breathing like he’s running a race. And he’s tenting out the front of them expensive pinstripe pants. I pout at him, trying for innocent again.  
  
  
“Don’t you like me?” I ask, and he turns all red, but his eyes do this up-down thing: he’s looking me over. So I run my hand down my chest and stomach, down to my hard-on. Framing the damn thing like it’s a work of art . . . which it is, if I do say so myself. “I really like  _you_ , Rob. . . .”  
  
  
Still breathing like a man who’s been through a race, he runs a hand through all that perfect hair, mussing it up just a bit. Funny thing is, that only makes me harder. I wanna grip that hair while I fuck his face, watching my dick slide past those pink lips. I wanna hear him moan around my cock like he can’t get enough.  
  
  
“ . . . like you, too, just—not in  _that_  way. Really, I’m not gay,” Fischer’s still backpedaling, and I laugh, pulling off my wife-beater and chucking it at the bunk bed.  
  
  
“’S’at right, Sug? Well, looks like your friend, there, didn’t get the memo.” I nod at his dick, which is still sticking up enough to make his denials sound ridiculous.  
  
  
He looks down at himself and goes even redder, kinda turning away like he can hide what I already know. “Ah, Jesus, I didn’t mean to—God, this is all wrong on  _so_  many levels!”  
  
  
“Mm, but it feels so  _right_.” I pout again, fighting to keep a straight face. He’s so fucking adorable and flustered. I just wanna fuck him blind. But he’s so damn skittish, I’m not real sure how to play this. If I come on too heavy, he may run off into the night, never to return.  
  
  
But if I play it just right . . . I moan and palm my dick through my pants, moaning and making faces. Just showing off for him. “I want you to fuck me so bad, Rob. Wanna feel your cock pushin’ into me over and over, and—“  
  
  
“Stop!” Fischer says, big blue eyes darting everywhere but at me. He’s got his hands over his hard-on like I ain’t already seen and felt the proof it’s there. “Look, I’m sorry about—shit, about _you know_ , but I can’t—that is,  _we can’t_  have sex!”  
  
  
I cross my arms, more amused at his denial than put-out. “Why not?”  
  
  
Fischer blinks then goes pale. “Because . . . well. . . .”  
  
  
“Oh, I forgot; you’re not queer.” I put on my innocent smile again. “Look, we don’t have to fuck. I mean, I can suck cock like nobody’s business, so we could do that, instead—“  
  
  
“ _No. No Sex._ ” Fischer shakes his head, still not looking at me. I sigh.  
  
  
“Ain’t  _sex_. It’s just  _head_. And  _everyone_  likes gettin’ head no matter who’s givin’ it,” I inform him, just in case he didn’t get that memo, either. Hell, I once talked Wendy into giving me head, just to see if I could get it up for a girl. Can, did, and came. Head is head is head. End of story. “C’mon, I know you want my hot, wet mouth on your cock.”  
  
  
“No, I really don’t,” Fischer lies, shaking his head some more, like one of those bobble-head dolls Eric’s got in his car. I snort. Fischer’s just about the worst liar I ever met. Well, except for Brian, who’s only ever lied to himself.  
  
  
“Yeah? Well, you’ll like it when  _I’m_  done.” I step forward snake-quick and drop to my knees, pinning his hips to the wall. And he’s so busy goggling down at me, I get one hand in his fly before he starts trying to shove me away.  
  
  
He’s wearing silk boxers. Nice.  
  
  
“I said  _no_ , Neil!” He grabs my upper arms and hauls me up like I don’t weigh anything. He’s stronger than he looks, though his hands are real soft.  
  
  
When we’re eye to eye, he gets this look on his face, real sad and frustrated. It makes me want to hug him or some bullshit like that. Anything to make him stop looking like this. Like how Brian looked when I told him about that night.  
  
  
And  _that_  makes me wonder what it’d be like to have Robert lay his head in my lap while I pet his soft-looking hair. . . .  
  
  
God, six months of no Johns and I’m going soft over this one. See what happens when you stop playing the game for more than a few weeks?  
  
  
And Fischer’s still looking at me, like maybe he feels sorry for me. No one’s ever looked at me that way, and it makes me mad. People don’t feel  _sorry_  for  _me_. I feel sorry for  _them_. Especially sad-sacks that’re too closeted to accept a free blow-job just because it’s a guy offering.  
  
  
“Who’re you to feel sorry for me? In fact,  _who are you_?” I demand, shrugging his hands off my arms. “What’re you doin’ here, if you ain’t here to fuck me?” Something else clicks into place, and I feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. “And how’d you know my name?”  
  
  
Fischer searches my eyes again, like he’s still trying to see my secrets, only he already knows them all. I can’t imagine what he’s hoping to see. I’ve got nothing left.  
  
  
“Neil, I knew your father,” he says softly, and  _I_  step back, this time. It’s nothing I ever expected to hear and for nearly a minute I can’t say or do anything other than stare at him, thinking this is some kind of weird,  _Candid Camera_ -style prank. Then I sneer at him.  
  
  
I’m so over this scene, it ain’t even funny.  
  
  
“Oh, really?” I don’t believe him, of course. And even if he was somehow magically telling the truth, so what? Mom didn’t hardly never talk about the guy who knocked her up, except to say they’d only been together while he was in Tulsa for a few months for business. And of course, like some damn movie of the week, he wanted nothing to do with her after he found out she was preggers. He’d dumped her, and presumably went back to his wife. A real prince of a guy, my father. “Well, tell him I said  _hi_ , okay? The door’s over there.”  
  
  
“I can’t. He’s . . . he passed on a few weeks ago.” Fischer bites his lip for a moment, making a face I can’t read. “See, he was, ah . . . he was my father, too.”  
  
  
I grin, hard and kinda angry. Why is it that all the cute ones are nuts? Or just dicks? I can’t tell which Fischer is, but I’m leaning toward that first one, since he really seems to believe what he’s saying. “You got a real fucked up sense of humor there, Bobby.”  
  
  
He shakes his head again, bobble-bobble-bobble. “I’m not joking, Neil. My father, Maurice Fischer, was also your father. I didn’t even know you existed till a few days ago, when my father’s estate was released to me.” Fischer exhales heavily, anger flashing in his eyes. Though I can tell it ain’t directed at me. “He knew about you all these years and never said a damned thi—“  
  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, opening the door to the apartment. I’ll  _make_  him leave, if I have to. “Shut up, and get out. This ain’t funny, anymore.”  
  
  
“I swear to you, I’m on the level about this. I can even do a DNA test to prove it. Maurice Fischer, my father, was also  _your_  father.”  
  
  
“God _damn_ it, you’re like a broken record!” I run my hands over my hair. “If you wanna think I’m your brother, go right ahead. But do it somewhere else, okay?”  
  
  
Fischer huffs, strain and annoyance showing around his eyes. “I can prove it, even without a DNA test. I have the files my detectives compiled, and . . . there’s our father’s Will.”  
  
  
“Look, Mr. Fischer, I don’t—wait a minute, there’s a  _Will_?”  
  
  
A wry smile curls those pretty lips, and Fischer nods. “In my father’s Will, he left his illegitimate child with a Ms. Ellen McCormick a substantial portion of his assets.”  
  
  
I can’t think. Can’t speak. All I can do is gape at him like a dumbass.  
  
  
My mouth closes then opens again. “How substantial?” it asks, without any input from my brain. Fischer clears his throat and looks me over again. I suddenly feel naked. No surprise, since I’m half-way there.  
  
  
“Enough so that you’d never have to, ah,  _work_  again.”  
  
  
I don’t even realize I’m backing up till my ass hits the couch. I’m just grateful for the support. I still don’t know what to say or do.  
  
  
“I’m not going to contest his Will,” Fischer is saying, all earnest and low. “And there are no strings attached, I just . . . wanted to meet you. To tell you everything myself, rather than have some ambulance-chaser come crashing into your life with the news.” He pauses then stands up straight, walking over to me. He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. I wanna shove it away again, but I don’t.  
  
  
“There are no strings attached,” he tells me again, looking into my eyes as if willing me to believe him. I don’t know that I do. I don’t really know anything, anymore. “You don’t have to do anything or see me again, if you don’t want to. I can have my lawyer contact you regarding paperwork, if you want. Once that’s all done, the money and holdings are yours.”  
  
  
I do my own version of a bobble-head doll. “But . . . why?”  
  
  
“Maybe he wanted to take responsibility for you before he died. Or maybe it was guilt. I honestly don’t know.” Fischer shrugs. “That man’s always been a mystery to me.”  
  
  
“No, I mean . . . why’d you wanna tell me yourself, instead of some lawyer, or whatever?”  
  
  
Fischer frowns, and looks at me like I just spoke Russian. “Because you’re my brother.”  
  
  
“You don’t even know me!” Now I push his hand off me and go to the kitchenette. Fuck the beer, I go straight for the 151. And fuck the shot glass, I swig straight from the bottle.  
  
  
“No, I don’t know you, Neil. But I’d like to.”  
  
  
The 151 burns all the way down, setting a fire in my belly. “You know enough about me to know I ain’t brother-material. My life’s fucked up, I’m fucked up . . . why would you want anything to do with me?” I turn to look at him, my eyes watering from the damn rum.  
  
  
Fischer’s brows shoot up under his hair, and he smiles that dimple-y smile. “Because I like you. You’re smart, tough, and strong. Maybe the strongest person I’ve ever met.” He puts his hands on the back of the couch and leans forward. “I’d like for you to be a part of my life.”  
  
  
“We’re not family,” I tell him flatly. “I got family, already.” Mom and Wendy, Eric and Brian. They’re all the family I want or need.  
  
  
“But I don’t.” Fischer looks down at his hands on the couch, and clenches them. “My mother died when I was ten and, granted, my father and I were never close . . . but my family died with him. Or I thought it did, until I found out about you.  
  
  
“I want you to be a part of my life,” he repeats, laughing like the joke's on him then looking up at me. There’s something desperate and unhappy in his eyes. I think it’s loneliness, but I can’t be sure. “Even if it’s just as a fucking pen-pal, I want you to be a part of my life.  _Please_.”  
  
  
I take another shot of 151 and wipe my mouth before my lips catch fire. “This ain’t a joke?” I ask, just to make sure.  
  
  
“It’s really not.”  
  
  
“And you’re saying that I can get this money, no strings attached.”  
  
  
“The money’s already yours, you basically just have to sign for it,” Fischer says, his face gone unreadable again. “I can have my lawyer bring you the paperwork today. Before noon, if you like.”  
  
  
“Well, fuck.” I lean against the counter. “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.”  
  
  
“ _What_?” Fischer asks, looking all horrified again. Figures he don’t watch movies. Probably goes to the opera instead, or to big Broadway plays.  
  
  
“Nothing. Look, if this ain’t a joke, I wanna see that paperwork by noon, then.” Fischer nods once, his expression smoothing out again.  _It’s his business face,_  I realize.  
  
  
“One phone call, and I can have it in your hands by ten.”  
  
  
For some reason, I find myself wondering again what it’d be like to just sit somewhere quiet and safe, with his head in my lap while I pet his hair and think about nothing at all. . . .  
  
  
I put the bottle down on the counter and cross my arms. “Good. But I want  _you_  to bring the paperwork, not some lawyer.” I smirk at the look of shock on his face. “Hell, and since I’ll be all rich, and shit, I’ll even buy you breakfast.”  
  
  
Them blue-blue eyes light up, and I feel warm—must be the Bacardi—inside, like I just did something wonderful.  
  
  
Yeah, right. It’s just breakfast. Breakfast don’t mean shit.  
  
  
“I’d, ah, I’d like that very much,” Fischer says formally, like I just asked him to senior prom; I shiver. Brother or not—and I still have my doubts about that, I mean, this has to be some sort of mistake, right?—he’s still fucking  _gorgeous_. Even grinning like a fool and shifting around like he can’t stay still anymore, he’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.  
  
  
_You do realize you’re getting turned on by your own brother, right?_  A little voice in my head asks. It sounds just like Eric.  
  
  
_Oh, shut the hell up,_  I tell it, holding out my hand to Fischer. He steps around the couch, still grinning, and takes it. When he does, I pull him close and kiss him again. On the mouth, but no tongue, or anything. You know. Just in case he really  _is_  my brother.  
  
  
He makes a sound low in his throat, and I can’t tell if he’s turned-on or just exasperated. But I wanna feel that sound vibrate around my dick. I wanna swallow that sound whole and go back for more. Hell, I just  _want_. . . .  
  
  
“Neil,” he breaks the kiss to say huskily, breathing hard again. I could learn to love it when he says my name like that. I could learn real easy. “Now that you know we’re related . . . you can’t keep doing that.”  
  
  
“I know.” And I do. But I also know that if it turns out he  _ain’t_  my brother after all, I’m gonna fuck him silly.  
  
  
_And if it turns out he is,_  the Eric-voice says, sounding way too amused for my liking. Which probably has something to do with the way my dick is once more standing at attention.  _If it turns out he is, you’re the one who’s gonna be fucked._  
  
  
Looking into Fischer’s blue-blue eyes, I know I already am.


End file.
